It crawls on his back, won't ever let him be.
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Stares at the walls until the cinder blocks can breathe.
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His eyes have gone away, escaping over time.
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He rules a crowded nation inside his mind.
|
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He knows that night like his hand.
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He knows every move he made.
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Late shift, the bell that rang, a time card won't fade.
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10:05 his truck pulled home.
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10:05 he climbed his stair, about the time he was accused of being there.
|
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But I'm not the man.
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He goes free as I wait on the row for the man to test the rope he'll slip around my throat...
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and silence me.
|
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On the day he was tried no witnesses testified.
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Nothing but evidence, not hard to falsify.
|
His own confession was a prosecutor's prize,
|
made up of fear, of rage and of outright lies.
|
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But I'm not the man.
|
He goes free as the candle vigil glows, as they burn my clothes.
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As the crowd cries, "Hang him slow!" and I feel my blood go cold, he goes free.
|
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Call out the KKK, they're wild after me.
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And with that frenzied look of half-demented zeal,
|
they'd love to serve me up my final meal.
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Who'll read my final rite and hear my last appeal?
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Who struck this devil's deal?
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|
-----------------
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I`m Not The Man
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| 10,000 Maniacs |
